


Is this How a Star Falls?: A Drabble Collection

by objectlesson



Series: Drabble Collections [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: M/M, Mostly Pining Though, check each chapter for individual tags!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 13:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21302936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: A collection of Han/Luke drabbles since I keep writing them! Check each individual chapter for tags and warnings.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker/Han Solo
Series: Drabble Collections [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1727191
Comments: 7
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> fucking love Skysolo all of the sudden so I keep cranking out drabbles on tumblr? so as per usual I thought I'd share them!! Enjoy. Also a general note: I hate the Star Wars canon and disregard it constantly so prepare for loads of inconsistencies! 
> 
> For the first one: oldman! Skysolo where Han lived and they defeat Kyle Ron super fast and end up living together with Rey on the Jedi planet. Angst, hurt/comfort, romance, fix-it fic, curtain fic.

Everything aches, when you’ve lost as much as Luke Skywalker has lost. 

You hobble around the island, using your walking stick as support, grimacing even as you meditate. You’re so very deeply engrained into the habit of caring for yourself and weathering every storm alone, that it doesn’t even _occur_ to you to ask anyone for help, even though you have people in your life who would help. You have lost so much, but you have not lost everything. 

It seems miraculous, then, when Han finds his way to your sorest spot by candle-light and presses palm there curiously, as you lay side by side in bed, too tired and awestruck still to do much else besides hold one another, make up for lost years. “You’re hurt, here,” Han mumbles, mouth pressed to your coarse grey hair, fingers kneading into age-softened flesh. “You rub at it with your fist when you walk around yelling at Rey. You make a face when you bend down.” 

“I’m hurt everywhere,” you remind him, taking his hand and guiding it back up to your heart, because if he’s going to try and fix you, this is where you want him to focus his energy. This is where you want him, period. “I’m old.” 

“Not _that_ old. Not as old as me. I could rub it for you,” he offers then, freeing his hand from yours and finding that spot in your back again, digging a thumb in. “I’ve been told I give a great massage.” He grins, waggles his eyebrows, and _god, _ there he is, the man you fell in love with when you were nineteen and didn’t know any better, didn’t know how to protect your heart from smuggler’s hands and cunning smirks. You soften against him, so fucking stunned that after all these years and all these heartbreaks, he still wants you. Wants to touch you. 

“You don’t have to,” you tell him, tracing a line with your knuckles from his jawline down to his throat, where his skin is gathered with age. He’s got wrinkles, his hair is grey, even lighter than yours, but he’s still so goddamned handsome it makes your breath catch. Han Solo, your strength and your weakness in this life, and probably any life before or after that. Han Solo, who you have not lost, somehow. 

“Luke,” he says, curling his fingers around your wrist, pulling you up and away and back down again to kiss your knuckles. “I want to. Give an old man an excuse to grope the guy he’s crazy about, ok?” 

“Fine,” you agree, because you wasted too much time arguing with him in the past, and you’re done with that now. “Good luck.” 

He cracks his knuckles and carefully rolls up your tunic. “I don’t need luck,” he growls out as he kisses the back of your neck, and you hide your smile and your tears in your pillow, heart clenching as he finds your pain in the dark. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one takes place some time after a New Hope. Pining, minor angst, innocent/virgin Luke, flirting, unresolved tension.

At first, Han thinks Luke is just watching him swim because he’s shirtless and wet. 

It’s fine, it’s predictable. Luke is always staring; he’s never been very good at doing anything _but_ where Han is concerned. For awhile, Han thought something might happen between them, that Luke would make a fucking _move_ after they defeated the empire, but apparently, all he wants to do is ogle. Han’s tried to test the waters a few times, tried to gauge how inexperienced and or self-aware Luke really is, but as soon as he starts to prod at him, Luke always gets flustered and defensive and _denies_ he spends most of his time staring at Han’s sternum like he wants to lick it, so whatever. It’s probably better this way, since Han doesn’t like wanting to corrupt people he has feelings for, and he doesn’t like having feelings for the sort of people he could corrupt. Luke fits both bills, so the best thing he can do is let him look until he figures it out on his own. 

Han’s not gonna hold his hand through it. He’s just gonna take advantage of this nice, placid lake a few miles from the new new rebel base on Batuu, and spend most of his free time swimming in it, and if Luke wants to sit there on the stump of a petrified tree in _all_ his clothes and _watch _him the whole time? That’s his weird, confusing, very repressed business. 

It’s not until three days of splashing around with Chewie while Luke hovers on the sidelines that it even_ occurs_ to Han there could be a reason _beyond_paralyzing attraction that Luke is not joining in.

It’s a sweltering afternoon, and Han can hardly _breathe_ unless he’s neck deep in the water, treading it or floating under the burn of the sun. He can _see_ Luke is sweating while he plays with his lightsaber on the shore, training like they have something to actually _do_ beyond tactical analysis and _god, _it makes _him_ hot just looking at him. Luke would look so much cuter lake-wet instead of perspiration-wet (not that he doesn’t look cute, Luke _always_ looks cute, it’s a fucking problem) so he paddles over, shaking his hair out like a dog as he calls, “hey, junior! How about you put the lightsaber down and take a dip for once? You work hard, you can play hard too.” 

Luke sheathes the saber, panting as he gazes out on the water longingly. “Nah, I—it’s fine. You enjoy it.” 

“What!? Why? Can’t you swim?” Han shouts back. 

It’s in this moment that moment Luke colors, eyes dropping to the packed hard earth under his feet and _oh, _damn. He _can’t_. And of course not, why would he? Where would he have even _learned, _out on Tattooine? Han suddenly feels like an insensitive asshole, heart clenching up because as stupid and pointless and destined for dead ends as it is, he fucking _likes_ Luke. Likes him way too much. “Hey, kid, m’sorry,” he gripes. 

“It’s fine,” Luke says, shrugging. “It’s just one of the _many_ downfalls of growing up in the middle of nowhere… I didn’t get off of that crummy rock until I met you, so. I haven’t exactly had time to try things. Like swimming.” 

“Well, lucky for you, it’s easy. And you have time_ now_. C’mon out here, I’ll show you,” Han offers, thinking it can’t be _that_ hard to teach an adult to dog-paddle around. Maybe he’ll even _get_ somewhere with Luke, if they have to touch. “I won’t let you drown.” 

Luke blushes again, and this time it goes straight to Han’s gut. He’s itching now, itching to get his hands on that golden skin made slick with water, eager to see Luke out of his stupid overlarge ponchos and tunics that hide how deliciously toned his arms are. “Promise?” he asks. 

“Promise,” Han repeats. And then, in a few agonizing minutes, he’s getting to watch Luke tentatively wade into the lake in nothing but his slouchy leggings, which he’s bunched around his knees. “That’s it,” Han says with a grin, heart racing in his chest. “Bet it feels better already. Cooler.”

“Yeah,” Luke says through his teeth, clearly nervous. “It’s weird.” 

“C’mon. It’s not too deep out here, you can still touch I bet. Try like…bending your knees and kicking the water under the surface a little.” 

“Not yet,” Luke says, nipples tightening up at the chill of the water, cheeks flushed. Han is the one staring now, the one who can’t keep his eyes off of Luke’s chest, the sweat-slick tendons in his neck, drawing the place his pulse is visibly speeding. Han wants to kiss him there. He wants to corrupt, in _spite_ of his feelings. “Just. Let me go slow.” 

“We can go slow,” Han says quietly, hating how soft his voice is. “Take your time, kid.” 

Luke flashes a nervous grin at him, and takes another step, water licking at his waist. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another super self indulgent Oldman!skysolo where Han lives. Sort of a continuation of a better-written thing Blake did where Han stows away on the Falcon on the way to the Jedi Planet, and reveals himself dramatically when Luke is like "where's Han?" and Rey yells a lot in the background being cute. Anyway. Here's more. Rey is in it! No warnings this shit is just fluff.

When Han presses their mouths flush, it feels like a dream. The sort of invasive half-nightmare that’s plagued Luke in every weak or low point in his life: Han breaking down his door, gripping his wrists in a rain-slick, powerful grip and kissing him. Telling him everything he used to wish for, back when the war ended he was forced to reconcile with the fact the man he loved chose his sister over him and he was left with nothing to show for what happened to him save for one feeling hand, a body full of scars, and the massive, crushing weight of his reputation to carry around scrap metal.

He’d beat himself up for selfishly longing for Han to come around, to leave Leia and find him and kiss him and beg Luke to take him back. He’s imagined Han Solo’s mouth around the words _I’m sorry_ so many times before that now that it’s happening, he almost resents it. He _trained_ himself out of wanting this, he _believed_ it was impossible. That he would never _see_ Han again, let alone feel the heat and solidity of his embrace, his soft, papery lips opening to lick into his mouth. 

He tears away, heart pounding, hands sweating as they fist in Han’s leather jacket. “What—what are you doing?” 

“What I should have done a long time ago,” Han murmurs, undeterred by Luke’s feeble attempts at resistance, pressing his face into his neck and scouring his mouth rough and sweet over his pulse. “What I _would _have done_, _if I had known where to find you.” 

Luke can’t help it, he’s pushing his hands through Han’s thinning hair, he’s thumbing tenderly over the lines and bags crinkled under his eyes. “You weren’t supposed to find me.” 

“Yeah, fuck that,” he rumbles against Luke’s throat, backing him into the wall and putting him up against it. “Come here,” he grinds out, even though Luke is _there, _there’s no space to crush between them, they’re pressed flush and grinding. Luke gasps, not thinking about the sea, or the force, or the girl who called herself Rey waiting outside for them to stop touching. He’s coming alive under Han’s roving hands, breathless and shivering. The years have done nothing to dampen his desperation where Han Solo is concerned, apparently, and that should feel like a defeat, but in this moment it feels like relief. Like surrender.

“Touch me,” me murmurs, grabbing Han’s hand and dragging it through the folds of his robe, under the waistband of his trousers where he’s thickening. “Kiss me. Now.” 

Han’s fingers encircle him sure and strong and he grins into Luke’s lips, growling “Now you’re talking,” before he kisses his groan to silence. 

—

Outside, Ray waits, and waits. The wind is uncomfortably chilly and the local, vaguely fish-like aliens are staring at her judgmentally, tittering amongst themselves and pointing. She does _not_ like to be gossiped about, and she does _not_ like feeling left out of important rebellion-related conversations, particularly when one of the parties involved allowed her to _grieve his death _for an entire twenty four hours, so. She strides up to the crude structure they’re inside, and presses her face to the glass. 

It takes her a moment to realize what’s happening, but as soon as she does, she reels away, heart pounding. _Oh_ she thinks, wrinkling up her nose in combined horror and relief. At least she’s not being left out of important rebellion related conversations. In fact, she’s thrilled to be left out of this particular engagement. She stumbles away to a rock, where she lowers herself unsteadily to sit, frowning. _I knew him, _Han had said back on the Falcon when she first asked, the weight of something huge and painful darkening his words like an ink spill. _I knew Luke. _

_Well. _He certainly _did _know Luke. In the Biblical sense. 

When he comes out entirely too long after, his hair is ruffled and his shirt is buttoned incorrectly, the neck gappy and awkward and incriminating, revealing silver hair sparse over flushed skin. _Disgusting_ Rey thinks, crossing her arms. “Thanks for waiting,” he says, eyes scanning the island, deliberately avoiding her. “Luke will be right out, he has—”

“Were you _planning_ on telling me you’re in love with Luke Skywalker? Or were you going to hide it until a highly inopportune moment, like _the fact you’re not dead?!” _

He finally looks at her, and does not appear _at all _apologetic or sheepish enough for Rey’s tastes. He almost looks smug. “Hey. The not-dead thing I told you as soon as I could. The other thing—well. I don’t really see how it’s your _business, _kid.” 

“Well, it is now, since I accidentally saw you with your _hand down his pants_ and your _tongue down his throat _and you two are _supposed to be_ training me to defeat an evil fascist regime!_” _

_“Pushy. _Hope you enjoyed the snow,” he sneers, through his cheeks are coloring. 

“I _did not. _I imagine it was rather like watching one’s _parents_ suck each others faces off, thank you very much.” 

And oddly enough, that’s the first time she might witness a sincere smile on Han Solo’s mouth that is not half hidden by his palm, or his shoulder, or the side of the ship when he thought she was not looking. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poorly negotiated kink, power dynamics, withholding, mild humiliation, gender essentialism, pining, flirting, frustration. Takes Place after A New Hope.

Han likes stringing Luke along. 

It’s not teasing…not exactly. If Luke _actually_ wanted to be pounded to the outer rim and back, then maybe it would be teasing. Maybe it would be a little _mean, _even, that Han likes to give him just enough he thinks it might actually happen. Enough of a taste he can imagine it when he fists his (probably pink, pretty, uncut) dick to finish when he’s snuggled up in his quarters on the Falcon. 

But the thing is, Luke doesn’t _actually_ want Han to hold him down and fuck him so hard he feels it for days. He only _thinks_ he wants it. Luke doesn’t know what the fuck he wants, because he’s a sheltered, grief-stricken little farm boy with daddy issues and the entire rebellion resting on his built, sloped shoulders that Han never stop thinking about biting. 

So, Han doesn’t actually feel guilty about messing with his head. Because Luke messes with _his _head just as much, simply by existing, by having those blue-blue eyes, by looking so fucking good in white Han’s thought about him in a wedding dress and everything. He’s just getting him _back. _Leveling the playing field. 

Lately, Han’s taken to increasingly suggestive double entendres. For example, when he promises to teach Luke how to replace the navigation electronics in the cock-pit of the Falcon, and Luke says, _M’gonna hold you to that _with this infuriatingly soft expression on his pretty face, eyes shiny and hooded and _fuck, _Han resents how good he’d look with come all over him, so without missing a beat he replies, “I’ll hold you to, or up against, whatever you want.” 

Luke is so goddamned easy to fluster. He reels back, licks his lips and pitches back in, body radiating heat in waves. Han continues tinkering with the console, does not look up, only inhales because Luke always smells good but he _especially_ does when his mouth is watering. When he thinks he wants. “You—you’re not serious,” he says then. 

He’s right, of course. Han’s not serious because neither is Luke. He thinks he wants a dick in his ass but he’s got_ flight risk_ written all over him. Han’s pretty sure the second he stretched him open on the tip, Luke would freak out and shove him off and go on some weird purity kick about the force. Plus, Luke doesn’t _specifically want_ Han to stick in him the way Han specifically wants Luke. Luke would be _just_ as happy with Chewy or Yoda or Obi Wan’s _ghost_dicking him down. Luke gets all squirmy for any man who’s got a few years on him. Han is not special. Han’s just a pilot who flirts with him, who dropped his whole life to cart him across the galaxy, to fight in his war he hardly cares about all because apparently he’s a goddamned sucker for sweet, innocent rural twinks who believe they’re _not_ innocent. 

“M’plenty serious, junior,” Han says easily. “But between us, _I’m_ not the virgin. What do you even know about being held up against things?” 

“That I’d be good at it,” Luke answers, gaze carefully averted. 

Han’s stomach drops, in spite of himself. Yeah, Luke would be _great_ at it, if he fucking let himself be implicated in messy, immoral things instead of saving the galaxy and all that. Instead of deciding at the last minute he was to _good_ to be held against anything. Particular Han’s thieving, criminal body. “You talk a lot of talk, kid,” he snaps before he accidentally severs the wrong wire. The whole console flashes, sparks, and stats smoking, and they jump back before they can get singed.“ Damnit,” Han curses. 

“You talk a lot of talk, too,” Luke grumbles. “About being able to fix things. And also about me. I should know by now you’re never gonna follow through, but I—I keep trying. Maybe one day I’ll be good enough and you’ll be desperate enough and —“

“Hey,” Han says, rounding on him, holding his finger up. He doesn’t like when Luke gets self-deprecating. It’s annoying because he’s missing the whole _point, _that Han isn’t holding out for any other reason besides preservation. Protection. He thinks Han’s more interested in Leia, but that’s only true because Leia is worldly and not stupid and their flirting might actually _go_ somewhere. Luke doesn’t realize _he’s_ the dead end. That _he’s_ ruining this for himself. 

“Sure. Maybe if you’re a good enough _boy, _you’ll get the goddamned reward you’re so hellbent on,” Han says, finally looking at Luke, smirking and grinning because it’s the only way to defend himself against how fucking sweet and needy and impossibly fuckable Luke looks right now. 

“What reward?” Luke asks, canting towards Han so he has to lean away, lest he get swept up in that hungry, broken open smell of his spit. “I want to hear you say it.” 

Han gives Luke his masturbation fodder, like always. It’s as far as they’re ever gonna get, anyway. “I’ll come into your quarters,” Han tells him, voice low, taunting, telling lies. “Wake you up with a fist in your hair if you’re sleeping. If you’re not, you’ll probably be complaining about something, so I’ll shut you up. Stuff your pretty mouth,” he says, hating how his heart leaps in longing at the way Luke’s eyelashes flutter, the way he licks his lips like he’s imagining it. “Happy?” 

“Not until you actually do it,” Luke murmurs. Telling lies. 

Han gnashes his teeth, wishing so fucking badly that Luke was as self aware as Leia was, that he was less concerned with purity and goodness and morality and all that bullshit. “Well then,” Luke mumbles, standing on shaky legs and wiping his hands on his thighs, watching Luke spread out on the floor in his white tunic like a bride on her wedding night, tempting and terrible _infuriatingly_ untouched. “Better be good.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an o/o ABO Drabble??? Because they're both omegas sorry I don't make the rules. Warnings for implied/mentioned het, pining, body fluids/slick, gender essentialism, brief brief brief mentions of sexual slavery (not actually present in the story).

Luke recognizes the smell coming from Han’s quarters on the Falcon.

It’s the smell he smells on _himself_ every few months, made sticker and muskier by the hot, close, desert heat that suffocates everything on Tattooine. It’s the smell of a heat: sharp and needy and mortifying. It’s the smell his aunt and uncle kept him inside for weeks for, worried he’d be eaten aline, kidnapped and auctioned off at Jabba’s. 

Now that they’re dead and Tatooine is nothing but a scorched, too-golden memory paling in the face of revolution and impending glory, Luke has leaned that omegas don’t _need_ to be stashed away and forgotten during heat. They can live, they can fuck. They can dance at galaxy trading outposts for hungry crowds to throw units at, drooling at the scent. There’s a future, where Luke thought there was only dead ends and fear and shame. 

He assumes, at first, the smell is coming from some girl Han’s picked up. It makes sense, after all. Luke figured Han was an alpha or a particularly cocky beta, with the way he saunters through the world wearing that devil-may-care smirk. He’s sure omega women _throb_ at the sight of him. After all, he does. He does and he blames it on biology, because that’s easier than anything else that might make him want Han Solo in ways he cannot have him. 

It’s not until the smell persists and strengthens and Han flat out _disappears_ that Luke starts to suspect. Maybe he’s _not_ overcompensating to conceal that he’s a beta. Maybe it’s darker than that, slicker than that. Maybe, they’re the _same. _

The thought keeps Luke up at night, twists low and hot and insistent in his gut while he likes awake on his cot, listening to the Falcon creak around him. He wonders how hungry for it Han is right now, if he’s dripping down his thighs the way Luke drips down his own, if he’s imagining something thick and hot and commanding inside him, filling him up. Luke wishes he could be that man, but he’s not. He will never be, no matter how desperate he is for Han’s hands in his hair, Han’s stubble making his skin raw. All he could do for Han is drop to his knees, push his thighs apart, and lick up the overflow. 

He fists his own cock to the thought of it, palm pressed to the metal that separates their quarters. _Me too_ he thinks in a blind, messy rage as he finishes over his fingers, burning and white. He pushes that heat up inside himself, where he’s already dripping. _Me too. _


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUMOR/crackfic about Luke being into Wookies and Han being jealous? yeah... blame Jen. But also read it because it's actually sort of good. 
> 
> tags: drinking, hair fetish, body hair, jealous Han, banter.

Han notices Luke staring at Chewie more than once. 

At first he’s worried it’s a xenophobic, racist thing, and half-plans to clock Luke next time he catches him. Just because he’s a _farm boy_ doesn’t mean he gets to be a dick about Wookies. But then, he notices it’s _more_ than that, more _complex. _Luke’s not just staring in slack-jawed judgement, but in—curiosity, maybe. He bites his lips about it. He offers to help Chewie do things around the Falcon even though he knows fuck all about mechanics. “I think someone has a crush on you,” he says one night to Chewie, over shots of some ugly, blue liquor they smuggled that tastes exactly how ship-fuel smells. He gestures to Luke’s empty seat in the cockpit, and Chewy rolls his eyes. 

_You fucking think? _he snorts in Wookie. _He wants to suck my dick. He’s always all up on it. Pretty sure he’s into interspecies, you know what Yoda said. _

Han makes a face and swigs some liquor. “Listen,” he slurs, making a face as he swallows. “M’not jealous, or anything.” 

_I didn’t say you were? _Chewie says, cocking his head. 

Han frowns, realizing with the full, messy unabashed force of a drunk person that he _is_ jealous. It’s not like he wanted actively fuck Luke before this second. He doesn’t _think_ he’s wanted that, anyway. But, knowing Luke could care less about fucking _him_ and is apparently into _Wookies_ for some fucking reason? It stings. “I guess you _are_ bigger than me,” he gripes. “And stronger.” 

_Wish I’d recorded that_ Chewie announces, pouring them both another shot. _I don’t think it’s the size…I think it’s the hair. He wants to braid it or something. He’s hairless af, have you noticed that?_

Han, has, unfortunately, noticed it. Luke is smooth and pretty and now that he _can’t_ destroy him because he’s not _shaggy_ enough, he wants really badly to destroy him. With his dick. “I could grow my hair out?” he says, shrugging, thoughtfully thumbing along the edge of the shot glass. “Maybe he’d be into that.” 

_You’re impossible_ Chewie barks at him. _I don’t think Luke is particularly picky about his men. _

Han shrugs. He supposes he’s going to find out. 


End file.
